


Love Rhymes With Glove

by runsinthefamily



Series: Torn Trousers [4]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Bad Poetry, Bianca's modesty, Isabela is a snoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-18
Updated: 2011-08-18
Packaged: 2017-10-22 19:10:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runsinthefamily/pseuds/runsinthefamily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the kmeme: <i>So Hawke keeps a diary right? I would love to see her writing some bad, bad love poetry in it.</i></p><p><i>Dedicated to Fenris or Anders please!</i></p><p><i>Bonus points for Isabela or Varric reading it. </i></p><p>Originally I thought this would be perfect for Nineteen!Hawke, but it seems obvious now that this is TornTrouser!Hawke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Rhymes With Glove

Isabela burst into Varric's room, wild-eyed, waving a leather-bound book in one hand.

"Dammit, Riviani!" he barked, tossing a towel over Bianca where she lay, partly disassembled, in a scatter of oils and rubbing cloths and wood polish. "A little privacy!"

"Shut up shut up!" said Isabela and flung herself down on his bed. "Listen to this:

 _Oh your skin is like toast  
with silver butter  
spread like veins of silver  
your lips are fat and pouty  
like a beautiful fish."_

"Is this more of your friend fiction?" asked Varric. "It's terrible, by the way."

"I didn't write this!" Isabela kicked her feet in glee. "Hawke did!"

"What?" Varric snatched the book out of her hands. Sure enough, Hawke's cramped, spiking writing covered the page, even more untidy than usual, with much blotting and scratching out of words. "Hawke writes poetry? Hawke writes bad poetry?"

"Wait, wait, here, read this one." Isabela scrabbled at the pages and then thrust the book back at him.

 _"Sweet sweet sweet sweet  
like honey your light brown eyes.  
I wish I could lick them  
out of their sockets and  
swallow them to let you see  
my insides  
on fire for you._

Andraste's dimpled buttcheeks," said Varric.

"I am dying!" gasped Isabela. "Licking eyes! Fat lips!"

"This," pronounced Varric, "is a tragic disappointment."

"Wait til you read the last one," said Isabela.

Unable to resist, Varric paged to the final poem.

 _"If I were wood, would you love me?  
Could you, were I wood, take me as  
you should, make it good, fuck me as you stood  
upon a stool of wood. I should have been wood  
with a trigger.  
Oh, Varric."_

He flung the book across the room.


End file.
